


Dirt and Sunshine: A Sequel to Cracking Glass

by bleedingpens



Series: Cracking Glass [1]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, back from the dead, this is what happens when you take a writing class in college--high school comes back to haunt you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9609653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedingpens/pseuds/bleedingpens
Summary: "She is a rat. All of her kind are rats. There must be reparations paid for the destruction of Better Living. It is time for the resurrection of society as it should be."Or, the one where Revolver was dead until she definitely wasn't.(SEQUEL TO CRACKING GLASS--I'd read that one first. Or don't. It's a free country (kind of).)--ON HIATUS DUE TO UNIVERSITY/NOT ABANDONED--





	1. Perfect Illusion

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cracking Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038711) by [bleedingpens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedingpens/pseuds/bleedingpens). 



> Hi, guys. It's been a while. It would seem old habits die hard, and I'm back to writing about that one kid from the desert. You know, the one I killed. More on that later. 
> 
> Each chapter will be named after a song, just like last time. Let's get started. 
> 
> Xoxo,  
> C

All sparks become flames. All it takes is a little oxygen.

A man was pacing in a dark room while a second, much younger man typed furiously at a laptop. The only light in the room was the glow of the laptop and a single bulb. The only sound in the room was the patter of keys and the click of a shoe heel against concrete.

There was a third person in the room, but that person was not alive. She was on a gleaming operating table, naked except for a thin white sheet over her hips. Her skin was immaculate. Her hair was dark against the glint of the steel.

“Are you finished yet?” The pacing man snapped, clearly agitated. His eyebrows were strung together as his eyes bore into the unmoving body. The younger man didn’t respond, only readjusted his glasses and squinted at the screen.

These two men were lone wolves of an empire that once stood. The first man couldn’t help the bitterness he felt when he thought of what once was, what he once was. The world at his feet, a white lab-coat, and an army. A thousand armies. A thousand worlds.

“Is it done?” He said, pulled from his reprieve when the young man cleared his throat.

“I think so. I still think we need to test it on someone, sir, we can’t guarantee it won’t destroy the body, or-”

“It has to be now. We’ve wasted enough time.” The man began to pull surgical equipment from a cabinet adjacent to the operating table. He piled tools on a tray.

“Sir,” The young man cleared his throat again. “Mr. Julien, I understand the time constraint, but if this doesn’t work, if it doesn’t take, we’ll be back at the beginning. With no body.” He was right to be cautious. The journey to procuring this particular girl had been lengthy and complicated, not to mention keeping it healthy enough to prevent decomposition. The planting of the older girl to steal the body and replace it with a fake that the damned Killjoys would burn and mourn had been nearly impossible. She had begun to lose her mind, a hiccup in the plan that resulted with her brains splattered on the floor of the desert the day after she had done her duty. Julien had only just managed to steal the necessary chemicals to keep the real body from rotting before the company fell, and had escaped with only moments to spare before Better Living was destroyed.

“I understand,” Julien stated shortly as he donned latex gloves and picked up a scalpel. “But the time is now. Thomas, print the devices.” Thomas paused, glasses on the end of his nose. He looked uneasy.

“Have I not made myself clear? Now!” Julien barked. Thomas began typing again, and the machine connected to the laptop began to whir and move. Codes from Thomas’s laptop made their way to the machine and were transferred to microchips that slipped into Thomas’s waiting hand. Four were produced before the machine shut down.

Julien began his work. He made small slices on the girl’s body: one fell in the crook of her elbow, the other in her left Achilles tendon, and two more on each temple. No blood fell. The skin looked pale and dull under the glitter of his scalpel. Into each cut, a microchip was placed, and the openings were sewn shut. Thomas watched the whole procedure, discomfort clear on his face.

“Activate the program,” Julien said, eyes resting hungrily on the body in front of him. Thomas did as he was told, attaching electrodes to each freshly-sewn wound. Typing the activation key into his computer program, he waited. Each orifice glowed a pale blue and went dim. The body didn’t stir.

“It says the program has embedded itself, sir,” Thomas said excitedly. “It worked!” Julien said nothing, surveying the body closely. He circled it like a hawk circling prey, pausing occasionally to prod at the body or run his fingers over the cold flesh.

“She will need more muscle,” Julien’s voice was soft as he touched the skin around her neck. “All those years in the desert, underfed…” He trailed off, eyes trained on her face.

Thomas paused in the collection of his materials. “Sir? What do you mean, she’ll need more muscle? This is only a prototype. It’s not meant to be used on a live body. And she isn’t, well,” He coughed. “She isn’t alive.”

Julien had begun to pull another device from the cabinet. “Do you know what this is?”

“An, um, an I.V. pole, sir.” Thomas looked nervously at the body, and back at Julien. “Sir, are you alright?”

“And do you know what this is?” He held up a bag of fluid, labeled with a fading BL/i sticker. Thomas shook his head. “This is a complicated mix of flecainide, adenosine, and dofetilide. You went to medical school, didn’t you?”  
“Those are all antiarrhythmic chemicals. But,” Thomas’s eyes widened. “Sir, you can’t do this! The program isn’t meant to function on living specimen, it hasn’t even been tested on rats!”

“She is a rat,” Julien stuck the left arm of the body with a needle and hooked the I.V. tube to the bag hanging above. “All of her kind are rats.” His eyes glinted dangerously as the fluid began to drip into her arm. “There must be reparations paid for the destruction of Better Living, Thomas. It is time for the resurrection of society as it should be. The future is bulletproof.”

Thomas paused before responding evenly. “The aftermath is secondary.”


	2. Sex&Drugs&Rock&Roll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title by the Heathens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You stuck around for chapter two. Sick stuff.

“Weren’t you supposed to quit smoking those?” Frank was lounging on the couch, legs thrown haphazardly over its arm. “Those things’ll kill you.” 

Gerard paid no attention to his boyfriend, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as his hand traveled around the page in front of him. He squinted, turned his head, and began to scrub his eraser on the paper. “I was supposed to die a while ago. If I made it this far, I deserve a damn cigarette.” 

Frank’s sigh was audible in the quiet room. “That was dramatic.” Music was playing softly in the background, something Frank didn’t recognize. Some new band. Pete would know. “Where’s Mikey?”

“Don’t know.”

“Are you guys still not talking?” 

Gerard looked up from his sketchbook to level a glare at Frank. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Frank rolled his eyes and let his head hang back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m drawing. Don’t you have anything to do?” 

“I’ve noticed. Let’s see,” Frank counted options off on his fingers. “No mega-cooperation to take down, so that’s out. Everyone is doing, like, community service to rebuild society or whatever, but has apparently decided we’re all on house arrest for the rest of our lives.” 

It was Gerard’s turn to roll his eyes. “That’s not it and you know it. We deserve a break.” 

“We had a break, and now I’m bored.” Frank stood and stretched, arms extending above his head. Just beneath his sleeve lay his newest tattoo: a lightning bolt encompassed by a circle. Revolver’s symbol. “It’s not fun anymore. Being comfortably alive is way less fun than being hunted like game.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“I know. That’s why I said it,” He walked across the room to drape his arms around Gerard’s neck. “What are you drawing?” 

“Same thing I always draw.” Gerard pulled his cigarette from his lips and blew smoke across the table. 

Frank watched Gerard sketch the edges of her eyes. “It’s nice to see you drawing again.” Gerard didn’t respond. 

\--

To say that Frank was bored was an understatement. He was restless. There was an infinite amount of growth around him, yet he felt stunted. He was also pissed; after eleven years in the desert, he had more-or-less gotten the hang of things. Then it all had to go to hell, and people had to die, and Frank was pissed, restless, and bored. 

He decided to leave Gerard to his drawing, knowing talking to him was only going to put him in a shittier mood, and Frank didn’t feel up to handling a skulking, dark Gerard. His mood had gotten worse since he and Mikey got into that nasty fight a few months ago. Frank couldn’t even remember what had started, but it ended with a “Fuck you, Gerard!” thrown over Mikey’s shoulder as he stormed out the front door. Frank had seen him a few times since then, but Gerard refused to do so. 

He’d be lying if he said it had been easy. As he made his way out the door with his coat and a promise to be home later, he squinted in the sunlight and looked around. It still tripped him out to see people walking around without blasters strapped to their bodies; a few of the more seasoned ex-Killjoys still kept them close, but people who had been freed from the city were less inclined to do so. Besides, they hadn’t been living as a fugitive for the last eleven years. 

Frank tried not to feel malice towards those they had rescued from the city. It had been a harrowing trip--hundreds of people with glassy eyes and glued-on smiles going about their daily lives without a clue in the world. It wasn’t until the medicine ran out that things got messy. Frank was cleaning blood from his clothes for weeks.

Anyways. 

Sliding sunglasses up his nose, Frank started out for Pete’s. It was the closest house, and while they have a car (some beat up Mustang Gerard found two weeks after the Trans Am died. He swears it drives different; all Frank knows is that it’s the ugliest shade of blue he’s ever seen), Frank felt like walking. It had been ages since he had been able to take a walk without a serious agenda, like saving someone’s life or running from crazy murderers in masks. He walked for a few minutes down a stretch of road, barely noticing the bicycles heading the other direction. It was two kids in their late teens and they come to a stop when they see him. 

This is the part that Frank is having the hardest time adjusting to. The weird, starry-eyed looks he gets from people like he’s the President or something. Okay, so he knows he’s part of the team that took down Better Living. But he did it with a blaster like everyone else. There isn’t anything special about him or any of the other guys for that matter. The only special one was Revolver, and he doesn’t want to think about that. 

“Hey, are you Fun Ghoul?” One girl asked, awe apparent on her face. She’s got freshly dyed hair and a glittering eyebrow piercing. The boy is plainer, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. 

“That I am,” Frank tried out a smile. 

“Sick.” The girl elbowed her friend in the side. “Rudy, this is one of the Fabulous Killjoys. The ones I was telling you about, remember?” She looked back at Frank. “He’s from the city.”

The boy--Rudy--nodded. “Fun Ghoul. Right. The one with the monster mask.” 

“Although I don’t wear that mask much anymore.” Frank shook their hands. “Do you like it out here, Rudy?” 

“Yes, it’s very nice. It’s, um, cool.” The girl giggled and elbowed him again.

“It wasn’t always that way, Rudy. You got the good desert because of this guy here,” She gestured at Frank, who shrugged. 

“And a lot of other people.” He adjusted his sunglasses.

“Come on, Rudy, if we don’t hurry up, Mom is going to serve dinner without us. ‘Bye, Ghoul, it was nice to meet you.” They got on their bikes and pedaled off. 

Frank watched them go, heart heavy. Meeting other people, especially young people, made him feel like a fake. He wasn’t half of what these people thought he was. If he was, Revolver wouldn’t be dead. She’d be riding around on a bike in the summer air with friends her age. Maybe she would have dyed her hair a weird color. 

By the time Frank makes it to Pete’s, he’s relatively bummed out and not even that stoked when Pete tells him he scored pot off of Mad Gear.

“I made him promise it wasn’t laced,” Pete said, tugging Frank towards the back room. “But then again, it is Gabe. So let me know if I grow an extra head or something.”

“Will do,” Frank said glumly, sitting beside Pete on the floor. He crossed his legs and watched Pete spark up. He took the joint when it was passed to him, inhaling slowly and letting the smoke fill his lungs.

“Dude, remember when we didn’t have lighters?” Pete exhaled through his nose. 

“That totally sucked. I used to have to light my cigarettes with a road flare.” 

“Totally sucked,” Pete agreed, rolling the joint between his fingers. “And there was no pot.” 

“No pot.” Frank leaned back against the wall with his arms around his head. “Gerard’s being all bitchy.” 

“Gerard’s always bitchy.” 

“No, but really bitchy,” Frank took another hit and exhaled, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. “All he does is draw and smoke and get in fights with everyone. It’s bumming me out. We haven’t had sex in, like, two months.” 

Pete gasped. “That’s tragic.” Frank nodded. “Maybe he’s depressed.”

“We’re all depressed,” Frank complained, flicking ash off the tip of the joint. “But you don’t get to defeat a mega-cooperation and be depressed.” 

Pete paused, taking the joint from Frank. “More happened than just the fall of BL/i, dude. It makes sense, I mean , given what-”

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Frank said shortly. He was definitely stoned now. 

“That’s your problem right there,” Pete said, rolling his eyes. “None of you deal with things. You never have, and now there isn’t a revolution to bury yourself in, so you’re stuck with it.”

Frank glared at the opposite wall. “Fuck you, Pete.”

“It’s true.” They lapsed into silence, the only sound a distant record playing in another room. Something poppy and happy. 

“They’re not talking,” Frank said after a few minutes. “Gerard and Mikey. They haven’t talked in weeks.”

“I know,” Pete replied, putting out the joint with his boot. “Mikey told me.”

“Where is he?” 

Pete shrugged. “Around. Doing his Mikey thing, visiting people, you know.” 

“Yeah,” Frank sighed, kicking off his shoes. “I know.” 

\-- 

Patrick came home an hour later, arms full of bags. Pete met him at the front door with a kiss, claiming that he already invited Frank over for dinner (which he didn’t) and that he was definitely staying (which he was now). Frank watched them unpack food, laughing and talking, and tried to ignore the prick of envy in his stomach. Pete and Patrick lost as much as they did; Broken died soon after Revolver, shot in the head in the middle of the desert. They burned her too. Why did they seem to have it together when all Frank, Gerard, and Mikey could do was spit venom at each other and hate the world? 

“How’s the house?” Patrick asked, storing cans in a cabinet. 

“It’s cool,” Frank shrugged. “It’s no Diner, but the absence of wood rot and, like, lead paint is pretty sweet.” 

Patrick laughed a boyish giggle that used to stand out harsh against the ruggedness of other Killjoys. Now, with his hair grown longer and his flannels, he looked like an average guy. People knew who he was, but they left him alone. It was Pete that was the show guy, always telling stories of how a drac almost took off his leg and how he killed two S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W/S in one fight. Patrick would just stand by, holding his hand, and would nod whenever Pete looked at him for validation. They could talk about it, and talk about Broken, and move on and make dinner together. Frank hadn’t said Revolver’s name in months. He couldn’t even think of her. 

“What are you making?” Frank asked, trying to clear his head. 

“Spaghetti.” Patrick kissed his fingertips, imitating an Italian chef. 

“Remember when we didn’t have food? Like ever?” Pete said once dinner was served. “I mean, we still don’t have much, but fuck. Spaghetti is awesome. That sucked.” 

“Totally sucked.” Frank agreed, mouth already full of pasta. 

\-- 

Frank ended up crashing at Pete’s place because they smoke more pot after dinner and he forgot how to put on shoes. By the time he woke up the next morning, he knew Gerard would be royally pissed by the time he got home, so he decided to take the long way back to the house. Passing rows of newly-constructed shacks and homes, he kept his gaze down, trying to shake the post-high haze tinging his vision. 

He was almost home when he saw it. It was painted on the back of an abandoned building, one of the few that still stood. A lightning bolt, encompassed by a circle. Underneath, bold words proudly read: 

LOUDER THAN GOD'S REVOLVER AND TWICE AS SHINY. 

Beneath that was the date of her death. Frank, having stopped short, felt tears prick at his eyes as he walked over to the building. He laid a hand on the wall, his forehead resting against it. He let his eyes drift closed. 

\--

Across the desert, Revolver’s eyes flew open.


	3. Sympathy for the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title by the Rolling Stones.

Light.

“Is she awake?”

Cold on her back. Metal? Was it metal?

Pain in her arm. Sticky feeling. Blood.

“Sir, I can’t promise she won’t have her memory when she comes into consciousness, I--”

“We’ll deal with it.” Man’s voice. It was deep.

Was she swimming? It felt like she was swimming, except there was no water. Water. Thirsty.

Ow! More pain. Needle in her hand. Sharp feeling.

“This should do it, sir.” Another man.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t restrain her?” Third voice. A woman. Softer.

“She’s been dead for a year,” The first man laughed. It was unkind. “How much strength will she have?”

Dead? She wasn’t dead. Her heart felt heavy in her chest, like cement. Dead people couldn’t feel pain. Dead people couldn’t move. Could she move? She tried to lift her arm, but she felt weighed down.

“Sir, her arm!” The second man sounded excited. “It jolted.”

“Charlotte?” The first man spoke clearly. “Can you hear me?” A hand touched her side, and she gasped suddenly, eyes flying open. Her torso lifted off the table and fell back painfully when her muscles gave out. It was so bright. Was she blind? She blinked blearily, eyes darting around the room. She tried to talk, but nothing came out.

“Get her hooked up to fluids,” The woman said, stepping into her line of sight. “Charlie, hi, welcome back.”

Charlie. That was her name? Yes, yes it was. Charlie. There was another name. Where was it?

The woman was pretty. She had long blonde hair and fair skin. Her face was focused as she waved her gloved finger in front of Charlie’s face. “Can you watch my finger? Thomas is going to get some fluids for you to feel better, okay?” Charlie blinked at her. Her eyes felt tired. “She’s responsive. Thomas, where is that IV bag?”

“Here, here, sorry,” The younger of the two men had been staring at Charlie in disbelief, eyes wide. He pulled a clear bag of liquid from an adjacent cabinet and hung it on a pole, readjusting Charlie’s IV. “I didn’t expect her to be so…”

“Lucid,” The older man stepped forward, entering Charlie’s limited line of sight. He was looking at her like she was a specimen. Charlie didn’t feel like a specimen. She felt like shit.

“H-Hurts,” She managed to gasp out, her throat wrenching painfully. “Hurts.”

“You took a nasty fall,” The woman stated calmly, pressing her fingers into each side of Charlie’s neck. She pressed down each side of her throat. “It looks like her windpipe is slightly crushed.”

“I mean, did you see what they did to her? It was--” Thomas cut off quickly under the stare of the older man. “It was nothing. Never mind.”

“She’s going to need some scans. We need to make sure her internal organs are still functioning. Charlie, can you squeeze my hand?”

Charlie made a feeble attempt to move her hand. It stayed still.

“It looks like the nerves in her hands are compromised,” The woman shined a light in her eyes. “I was worried about that. Julien, how quickly can you get us somewhere with medical equipment?”

“There is only one Better Living hospital that I know of that has not yet been destroyed,” Julien said slowly. He was still staring at Charlie. Charlie decided she didn’t like him.

As the woman pressed a stethoscope to Charlie’s chest, she saw her give a minuscule eye roll. “We can worry about medicating her later. Right now, we need to keep her alive.”

Medicating. Medication. Charlie felt like a spark went off in her brain. She didn’t know what the medication was, but she knew she didn’t want it. Something was telling her she didn’t want it. Someone was telling her she didn’t want it.

“We need to begin medicating her as soon as possible, Marie,” Julien said coldly, peeling his eyes away from Charlie to glare at the woman. “We cannot wait.”

“Fine,” Marie didn’t look happy about it, but she removed her gloves and placed her hands on her hips. “How far is it?”

\--

When Charlie woke up again, she hurt less. The lights were still too bright, and she blinked blearily and looked around the room. She was someplace new, someplace cleaner, and she was in a bed. Sheets covered her body. An IV was still stuck in her hand, and she now had new tubes in her nose.

She quickly realized she couldn’t feel her hand. Her head swiveled to the left to find her hand still attached but looking mangled. It was bruised and had a long incision spreading from her middle knuckle to the start of her wrist. Stitches glittered at her as she stared. It was then that she noticed something else.

She was restrained.

Straps enveloped her wrists and ankles, and they were attached to the bed. No, not just attached--chained.

Charlie tried not to freak out, swallowing thickly against her swollen throat and scanning the room. She had no idea where she was, or even who she was, really, but she knew she had to get out of there. The IV drip echoed throughout the room as she scanned her brain for options. The straps were made of solid leather, and the chains looked too heavy to lift, even if Charlie’s body was working properly.

Panickin’ does nothing, kid, A thought crossed her mind. It wasn’t her voice. She didn’t know who it was. If you panic, you die.

If she panics, she dies. “Cheery,” Charlie managed. Her voice sounded like she had been swallowing glass.

“You shouldn’t talk,” A voice startled her abruptly. She tried to jump from the bed, which only resulted in the restraints tightening painfully against her arms and legs. “Your throat is still swollen from surgery.”

Surgery? Charlie frowned. The woman from earlier was standing in the doorway, wearing blindingly white scrubs and adjusting her gloves.

“We had to reconstruct your windpipe. There shouldn’t be much of a scar once you’ve healed. Your hand, though, that’ll be a bit rougher. How are you feeling?” Marie walked across the room, pausing to tap the IV bag hanging above Charlie’s head.

“You just t-told me not to talk,” Charlie rasped.

Marie paused and gave Charlie a small smile. “They weren’t lying when they said you were smart.”

“Who’s they?”

“No need to worry about that yet,” Marie took her stethoscope from around her neck and began to press is against Charlie’s chest. “Can you take a deep breath for me? Good, good. Turn your head. Thank you.” She returned the stethoscope its place around her neck. “Charlie, do you know where you are? Nod yes or no.”

Charlie shook her head. She shifted against her restraints. Marie’s eyes flickered to the chains.

“Sorry about all that. They insisted. You know, maximum security.”

“Why?” Charlie blinked at her. She didn’t think she could walk if she tried.

“How much of your life do you remember from before you woke up?”

Truth be told, almost nothing. Charlie kept having dreams with voices and fuzzy pictures, but there was nothing concrete. She knew her name, and knew she was somewhere she shouldn’t be. There was a growing feeling in the pit of her stomach that something was wrong, but something told her she shouldn’t tell Marie that.

“Nothing,” Charlie said. “Nothing at all.”

Marie just looked at her, holding eye contact. “Do you know who you are?”

“You said my name,” Charlie swallowed again, wincing. “Charlie.”

“That’s right. Do you know where you are, Charlie?”

Charlie looked around. “A room.”

Marie laughed, removing her gloves and tossing them into a can. She walked around Charlie’s bed and began rooting through the cabinets to Charlie’s left. “You’re not wrong. What do you know,” She paused, removing a set of clear bottles and three syringes. “About Better Living Industries?”

Charlie had to keep herself from gasping out loud. That name. That name she knew. She could picture a horrendous black face on a white background. A jumpsuit. A gun. Bottles of medicine, bottles like--

Her eyes fell on Marie’s hands working a needle into the cork of the first bottle. Fuck.

“Better Living Industries,” Marie said, filling the first syringe and tapping its glass body. “Is what saved your life. You were dead, and we brought you back.”

Dead. She was dead. Charlie remembered more pain. Someone was holding her when it happened. Where was his face?

“You are very important to us, Charlie,” Marie set the syringe on a tray and began to fill the second. “And we want to keep you alive and happy. There are a few things that we need from you as well.”

“What is that?” Charlie asked, fighting to keep panic from her voice.

“Just some medicine for pain,” Marie said dismissively, setting the second syringe beside the first. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, so I won’t say more, but the easier you make this for us, the faster those chains come off. Deal?” The third syringe filled and took its place among the rest.

“Deal,” Charlie said quietly, eyeing the syringes with apprehension.

“We’ll give you these shots until you can swallow the pills,” Marie rolled the tray to Charlie’s bedside and replaced her gloves. Charlie caught a flash of black nail polish. “It might sting. Don’t fight it.”

“Fight, fight what?” Charlie sputtered. Marie didn’t respond as she inserted the first needle into Charlie’s IV port.

Suddenly, Charlie’s arm was on fire. No, no it wasn’t her arm--it was her brain.

“The third one will put you to sleep,” Marie said. Her voice sounded distant against the chorus of noise in Charlie’s head. “Just hold on until then.”

Someone was screaming. Charlie tried to turn away from the noise, feeling the restraints dig into her skin until she realized that the person that was screaming was her.

“Poison!” The yell tore from her throat, and she caught a glimpse of Marie’s shocked face before she fell into darkness.


	4. Fortunate Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this is so late--college was kicking my ass with some midterms for a while there. Here's a nice and long chapter to make up for it. 
> 
> Title by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

The only sound in the room was a steady drip. It was either her IV or her blood; Charlie couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

She wasn’t sure when she had eaten last. The shackles around her ankles and wrists were rubbing her skin raw; they had already become sticky with blood, and the metal was stinging the scabs that were forming over barely-healed wounds. She was dressed in a white shirt and white pants, sterile fabric scratching uncomfortably against her back, which was pressed to a chair. She hadn’t been moved in hours--at least it felt like hours. Every once in awhile, things would go dark, and she would wake up some time later in a new jumpsuit with a new IV and new shackles. She hadn’t seen anybody since Marie had injected her with  _ something _ three days ago. She only knew the date because of the blinking analog clock on the wall.

Charlie felt tired, bone-tired, and sick. All that she knew so far was that she had only been alive for about a week, yet she was twenty years old, which didn’t make any sense. She knew her name was Charlie. She knew that every time she fell asleep, she dreamed of people she didn’t know. Most of all, she knew she was done with being strapped to a chair.

She was pulled from her thoughts when footsteps clicked past her door. She still couldn’t talk for very long, and her voice rarely rose above a rasp, but she swallowed and attempted to speak. 

“Hello? Is someone out there?” She cleared her throat, wincing, and repeated herself. “Hello?”

The footsteps stopped and returned closer to the door. The window coverings were raised, and she saw a man in a surgical mask staring at her. 

“Um,” She adjusted in her seat. “I don’t know where I am.” The man blinked, his white scrubs almost blinding in the light. “Can you hear me?” He turned suddenly and gestured to his left. 

The clank of the lock’s tumblers echoed throughout the empty room as the door swung open, revealing the man in his full height flanked by three other masked men. He entered the room swiftly, speaking in a clipped tone.

“You can talk?”

“Not well,” Charlie said uneasily, eyeing the man carefully. “But I guess. Hey!” He had begun to examine her neck, pressing firmly against her windpipe and collarbones. “What the hell?”

“Open your mouth,” He instructed, pulling on gloves. “And don’t talk.” She began to sputter as he stuck two gloved fingers in her mouth, swiping along the back of her molars. “Can you stand?”

She coughed, fighting her gag reflex as he withdrew his hand to examine his fingers. “I don’t know. I’ve been in this chair for three days.”

“Take off the shackles,” He commanded, turning to the silent men. “We need to see if her muscles are withstanding treatment.”

“Treatment? What treatment?” She was ignored, and the shackles around her ankles and wrists were removed. Rather unceremoniously, she was brought to her feet. 

It was the first time she had held her whole weight, and she nearly fell. Steadying herself with one hand on the chair, she took a hesitant step. She managed five steps across the room before she fell against the wall, breathing heavily. Her legs felt like melted rubber. 

“Good,” The man said, circling her slowly. “Very good. Walk back over this way.” She hesitated, and he glared at her. “Now!”

Charlie stumbled in his direction, muscles tensing and releasing under her weight. She made it across the room before faltering and falling to the tile floor. 

She cried out in pain, hitting the cold ground on her hands and knees. Her fall had caused her sleeve to fall off of her left shoulder, and she saw something strange out of the corner of her eye. A wicked scar bubbled from her skin, and she touched it gingerly with one aching hand. 

Suddenly, it felt as if she had been hit with a brick. Searing pain. Heat. Sand. A man in a gray suit, his grin dripping with venom. Another man, this one blonde. A red jacket. Now she was warm. Safe. She knew that man. She thought she loved him.

“Charlie?” A voice entered her memories, and she blinked up at the man. “I asked you to stand. Can you do that?” 

“Yes,” Charlie shook her head, covering her shoulder. “Yes, I can.”

She was helped back to the chair, but her shackles were not replaced. She was left unchained under the watchful eye of the four men.

“You have gotten much stronger than any of us expected,” The masked man said. He almost sounded impressed. “I think that Marie will want to move you from this room.”

“Oh, thank God,” Charlie sighed.

“You should be strong enough for testing within the week.” The man discarded his gloves and began to leave.

“Wait, wait!” She called out. “What testing?” 

The door closed with a clean click.

 

\---

 

Charlie didn’t see another person for four days. Her muscles were aching and throbbing from the exertion of walking, and she couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen to her when her cell door opened again. She was mindlessly frustrated at her lack of memory, even if she didn’t know what she was supposed to be remembering. Memories came in flashes of light and noise, yet she couldn’t picture anyone clearly. The most she could figure out was that she was important; that is,  _ who she was _ was important. 

When the door reopened, she was convinced it wasn’t real. During her four days alone, she had convinced herself she was going to be left in that room for the rest of her life. When she came face-to-face with a pair of incredibly clean high heels, she didn’t even blink. 

“Charlie?” A lilting, female voice echoed in the empty room. “Why are you on the floor?” 

“It’s more comfortable,” Charlie responded. In truth, she had been trying to walk again and had fallen roughly onto the tile. Her ribs were throbbing. 

“Do you remember me?” The woman bent down and leaned her face in front of Charlie’s. “Marie?”

“Yeah, I remember you,” Charlie propped herself up on her elbows, looking at Marie coldly. “Nice to see you again. Or any person for that matter.”

“I know,” Marie smiled sympathetically. The smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s been a long few weeks, but I think you’re strong enough to be moved from this room.”

“And moved to where?”

“Somewhere else that’s more comfortable. With a bed. We’ll need to give you another round of fluids to finalize your muscle definition, but that shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

“Somehow, I don’t think any of this is being done in my best interest,” Charlie glared at Marie. “I want to know why I’m here.”

“That can be arranged,” Marie extended a hand. “If you come with me.” 

Charlie paused, then allowed herself to be brought to her feet by two masked guards. Marie led her to a wheelchair, where she stared ahead reproachfully as she was wheeled down a long, bright hallway. She passed room after room that looked exactly like hers, empty of residents. She wondered if they were ever going to be filled. 

The wheelchair was brought to a stop in front of a set of double doors. Marie keyed in a code, using one manicured finger to do so, and the doors unlocked to reveal a huge room filled with medical equipment. The sharp smell of antiseptic stung Charlie’s nostrils. Before Charlie could ask any questions, she was wheeled straight through and into another hallway, where Marie typed in another code and opened a door that led to an office.

“Charlie, I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” Marie said once Charlie had been seated in a chair opposite her desk. The desk was immaculate, empty of all materials except a neat pile of folders and a single plant. It was a succulent. Charlie couldn’t get herself to look away from the tiny plant.

“You like it?” Marie said. She pushed the small pot towards Charlie. “You can pick it up.”

As soon as the plant was in her hands, Charlie felt a surge of memory. She had seen a plant like this before, in a similar pot, on the windowsill of...somewhere. She couldn’t put her finger on it. All she knew was that it was home. She could see hands inked with tattoos toying with the leaves in the orange glow of a sunset.  _ “You have to show plants love, Revolver.” _

Revolver.

Charlie felt her breath leave her body in a sharp exhale. Revolver. The name echoed in her head like a gunshot. She knew that name. It was her name. She was Revolver, and there was someone out there with tattooed hands and a red jacket and a kind voice who missed her. She could feel it. 

She was brought out of her thoughts by the keen awareness that Marie was watching her. Watching for her reaction, she was sure of it. Charlie swallowed and placed the plant back on the desk.

“It’s pretty,” Charlie said, fighting to keep her voice level. 

Marie made a noncommittal noise. “It was a gift,” She shuffled some papers around on her desk and pulled out a file from the center of the pile. “Look. I want us to be clear on a few things because I’m sure these last few weeks have been immensely confusing for you.”

Charlie snorted. “Yeah, you try waking up after being dead with no memory and see how you feel.” 

Marie smiled. “It’s better than being dead, though, isn’t it?” She opened the file and began to flip through it. “What do you know about yourself, Charlie?”

“That my name is Charlie, and that I don’t like peas. That’s pretty much it.” Charlie folded her arms and looked at the file in Marie’s hands. “What is that?”

“Just paperwork,” Marie replied dismissively. “Can you be honest with me for a moment, Charlie?” 

“Sure.” 

“Is that really all you remember?”

Charlie hesitated before nodding her head. “That’s all.”

“See, I don’t believe you,” Marie said, beginning to draw papers from the file. “I think you’re lying to me, and one thing I do not tolerate is lying.” The light lit of her voice had vanished; she sounded cold and calculating. Charlie felt chills drip down her spin. “Let me make this very clear: I will keep you alive until you give me a reason not to. There are other bodies to resurrect, darling.”

“Why me?” Charlie whispered, training her eyes on her bare feet.

“You were born on December 29th, 2004. A Christmas present to your young parents who were barely through college. They were only thirty when they both died. Sad,” Marie turned a page and looked up from her papers to view Charlie with a cold stare. “Sound familiar?”

Charlie swallowed to fight the rising bile in her throat. “No.” 

“Your mother died first,” Marie withdrew a picture and pushed it across the desk. A woman was lying on a carpet, blood pooled around her head like a twisted halo. Blonde hair was matted to one side of her face; the other side was blown open. Charlie couldn’t tear her eyes away. “Your father was shot second, although I understand it took a few minutes for him to die. Where were you during all of this, Charlie?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie’s voice was rising barely above a whisper. Marie set a picture of a man in front of her; he was young, with thick black hair and kind eyes. His eyes were open, unlike the woman’s, and empty of all light. His chest was soaked with dark blood. 

A third picture was placed on top of the second. There were three figures in this photo. It was grainy and low-quality, and Charlie had to pick it up to get a better look. A girl was pressed into the shoulder of a red-haired man in a blue jacket. The second man was reaching his arms out towards the pair.

Suddenly, her veins ran cold. She gasped aloud, her chest feeling constricted and closed. Marie stood up, leaning against the desk with her hands. 

“You know them.”

“Yes,” Charlie stammered. “Yes, yes.” She was gasping for breath, hot tears dripping down her cheeks. “I, I remember.”

Marie’s grin was as sharp as a knife. “Perfect.” 

The office door flew open, and Charlie was lifted to her feet by two masked guards. She shouted in alarm but was quickly cut off as a leather strap was forced between her teeth and fixed behind her head. A hood was pulled over her head, and she felt her body stumble forward. 

“Thank you for cooperating,” Marie’s voice was fading away. Charlie could hear laughter twist her words. “I’ll see you soon, Revolver.”

Charlie strained against her restraints, teeth digging into the gag. She felt the leather cut the corners of her mouth. 

“Shut up,” A rough voice said as Charlie was forced to her knees. “If you struggle, it hurts more.” Saliva was dripping down Charlie’s chin as she fought against the strap; she had no idea where she was. She felt cuffs close around her wrists. They were pulled above her head and fastened to a clinking chain. Two pairs of hands closed around her ankles, keeping them pressed into the cold cement. 

“Hold still,” The voice commanded, and Charlie felt a something sharp enter her spine forcefully. She screamed in pain; it felt like someone was pouring acid down her back and into her legs. She was hoisted to her feet, chains clanging above her until she was hanging above the ground. Her toes were barely skimming the ground. 

Her breaths were coming in ragged, labored bursts. The pain was immense and encompassing. Charlie sensed someone to her left, and felt two fingers press against her midback. “There is a twelve gauge needle right here. If you move, you paralyze yourself, or you cut off all spinal function and die of nerve damage and organ failure. So,” Charlie could detect a hint of laughter in the speaker’s tongue.

  
“Don’t move.” 


	5. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was one was a doozy. 
> 
> Title song by Imagine Dragons

Charlie used to be afraid of needles. She had a distant memory of crying and holding on to her mother as her pediatrician tried to give her a shot. Even when she got her nose pierced, something she had begged for, she cried. It wasn’t the pain, really. It was the fact that something was getting under her skin and putting something there. 

Charlie couldn’t afford to be afraid of needles anymore. 

She counted them throughout her day. She woke up with a needle in her spine. It dripped fluid into her legs, making them stronger. Her muscles grew and her bones strengthened. She could walk now. Run, even. 

Someone would come in and remove it slowly, meticulously, so that she didn’t lose the use of her legs. Then there would be two more needles. One would slip into the vein on her hand, supplying her with nutrients. She didn’t get solid food anymore. Another would enter below her left collarbones, pumping her body with steroids. Every day her body grew stronger. Her skinny limbs became toned and tense; no longer did her ribs stick out of her chest, distended. 

There were five more needles in the afternoon. Each one was filled with something different. On one unlucky occasion, a masked surgeon in a white suit inserted a sixth needle through her chest wall without anesthetic. Charlie had screamed for hours afterward. 

She ended her day with four needles. The spinal tap was reinserted and two more went into each arm. A final needle put her to sleep; it was long and sharp, but it was her favorite moment. She could forget for a while when that needle came out of its drawer. 

She was on her third needle when Marie entered her room for the first time in a month. Charlie hadn’t seen a human face in a long time. Every person she met was masked or hooded. 

“Charlie, how are we?” Marie sounded happy. A smile was pulling at her lips. “It’s been a while.”

Charlie didn’t respond, keeping her eyes focused on Marie’s face. She looked younger, somehow, less tired. There was a new light in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Charlie wasn’t sure if it was real. 

“I’ve been getting nothing but positive words about you,” Marie pulled up a chair from the desk adjacent to Charlie’s hospital bed and took a seat. “Everyone says you’re so cooperative, and that you’re getting stronger every day.” She was holding a clipboard and began to flip through the pages. “Twenty-seven pounds gained in a month! We might be able to move you to solid food soon. Would you like that?”

Charlie fought to speak. Her tongue felt heavy from lack of use. “Y-Yes.”

“What’s your favorite food, Charlie?” 

“I don’t know, um, I…” Charlie trailed off. Something pricked in the back of her brain; a distant, fuzzy memory of a bowl in her hands, filled to the brim with noodles. The hands on the bowl were tattooed. She couldn’t see the face. “Pasta. I think.” 

“That can be the first thing you eat, then,” Marie smiled wider. “Now, I have a few questions for you. Routine assessment, no surprises.”

Charlie’s heart rate spiked. Questions usually meant pain. Once she was strong enough to move on her own, the guards would strap her to a vertical table and pester her with questions. If she answered it wrong, they would shock her with electricity. If they were feeling mean, they would drip something into her I.V. that made her feel like her body was on fire. Sometimes she went unconscious if she was lucky. 

She had been started on medication two weeks prior. It had first been administered after a particularly gruesome round of questioning. She had been left on the floor of the room, gasping for air against the blood that was seeping from her mouth. A man had entered the room quietly, nose and mouth hidden behind a surgical mask. He shut the door behind him with a smart click. He had kneeled next to her and done something strange; he had grabbed her hand. It was then that she cried for the first time that the whole thing had started. Everything hurt, she had no idea what was going on, and she felt that it would never end. She had begged him for death through a mouthful of blood and bile, finally collapsing into the mess she had made on the floor.

“If you relax,” He had said. “It doesn’t hurt as much. This will help.” He handed her a small white pill the size of her little fingernail and a cup of water. She took it without thinking, thinking only briefly of the man with the red hair who used to hold her hand when things hurt, before swallowing. 

The medication made it hurt less. She could float blissfully between cycles of operations and tests in a cloud of her own thoughts. They made the nightmares go away. 

“We’ll start with the easy ones. What’s your name?”

“Charlotte,” She responded, training her eyes on Marie’s twitching pen. 

“Good. How old are you?”

“Nineteen years old. My birthday is in December.” 

“Where are you right now?” Marie viewed Charlie carefully over the rim of the glasses perched on the edge of her nose. Charlie hadn’t noticed them before.

“A hospital. A Better Living hospital.” Every time she said the name, it felt painful on her tongue, like a razor, but she swallowed and moved on. Her thoughts never felt complete anymore. She wasn’t sure if that bothered her. 

“Good,” Marie scratched her pen across the surface of her clipboard. The noise felt foreign to Charlie’s sensitive ears. “Good. I’m going to show you some pictures, and I want you to tell me if you recognize them.” She flipped through the clipboard, withdrew a sheet of photo paper, and placed it on Charlie’s lap. 

It was a man with a shock of red hair and a blue jacket. He was looking determinedly at the camera with a scowl that was barely visible behind the yellow bandana that covered his nose and mouth. As Charlie looked closer, pain seared in her left temple. She felt as though her brain was fighting the image, and she had to use all of her willpower not to gasp aloud. 

“Do you know who this is?” Marie asked, eyes trained on Charlie’s face. “Can you tell me his name?”

“No,” Charlie pressed a hand to her left eye, squinting. “I don’t--I don’t know who he is.” 

Marie withdrew the picture and replaced it with a photo of two men. One was leaning against a wall, dirty blonde hair pushed back by a pair of sunglasses. The picture was grainy, but the tattoos on the second man were clear. The black ink hurt Charlie’s eyes. Charlie shook her head; the pain had dulled slightly, although her head was still pounding. Marie flipped through picture after picture; multiple men and women in oddly colored clothing were shown to her, and Charlie repeated that she didn’t know any of them. Meanwhile, the pain in her head was threatening to knock her unconscious. 

Marie assembled the photos into a pile and returned them to her clipboard. “We’re done for today. Can you still tell me what your name is?”

“Charlie,” She muttered, eyes flickering closed as the pounding in her head lessened but persisted. “I just want to sleep.” Her voice felt far away. 

The sound of Marie’s sigh drifted over Charlie like a breeze. “We’ll talk later.” At last, Charlie felt the familiar rush of morphine into her veins, and she allowed herself to drift away. 

\--  
“Dude, you have to stop sleeping on my floor. This is getting depressing.” 

Mikey ignored Pete and continued packing his things into his knapsack.

“I don’t even know why you’re packing,” Pete continued. “You’re just going to be back tonight anyways.” 

“Pete, for the last time,” Mikey said shortly. “I’m figuring it out.”

“No, what you’re doing is pouting,” Pete replied, eyebrows furrowing into a frown. “You’re acting like we’re still at war. It’s over, Mikey. It’s done.”

Mikey swung the strap of his sack over his shoulder as he fished a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket. He pushed them on and started for the door. “See you, Pete.” 

“Gerard was asking about you, you know,” Anger flared in Mikey’s chest at the mention of his brother’s name, and it took all he had to keep himself from turning around and punching Pete for bothering to bring it up. “How you were doing.”

“I don’t need him. We’re not at war anymore, remember?” Sarcasm spread across Mikey’s tone, “The Four is over with.” He let the door close behind him and stalked out to his motorbike. He swung one leg on and kicked it to life before righting a bandana around his face and taking off. 

He knew it wasn’t Pete’s fault that Mikey’s life was falling apart, but Mikey had never been good at taking responsibility for his own actions anyways. He was the Killjoy that didn’t move on, that stayed angry, and that ran everyone out of his life. He wasn’t even sure he cared anymore. 

He started down the stretch of road, which had been newly paved; its smoothness felt foreign and uncomfortable. This new world felt wrong, even though Mikey knew it was what they had been fighting for. He no longer had to worry about being shot or being taken in the dead of night. He always had food, never longed for much, and yet he felt emptier than ever. At least being a wanted criminal wasn’t lonely. Everyone wanted to be you or wanted to kill you. 

He decided to stop off at the bar that used to belong to X-Kid, an older Killjoy who reigned from California and never let anyone forget it. X-Kid had changed his name long before BL/i fell--he was known as Billie to most of the Killjoys that made their way through his bar. It was cleaner now, and the sound quality of the music that played through the speakers was much clearer than before, yet it was one of the only places in the ex-Zones that felt like home to Mikey.

Billie was working behind the long stretch of bar counter when Mikey arrived. A familiar band was playing overhead, one Mikey had loved during high school--the Ramones. “Nice music,” Mikey said, taking a bar stool and shucking off his heavy leather jacket. “I loved these guys.”

“They’re a classic,” Billie said, reaching under the bar and pulling up a cold bottle of beer. He opened it with a crack and handed it to Mikey. “Can’t go wrong with garage punk on a warm day.”

They sat in semi-silence for a few moments, the music providing an easy amount of background noise. The television in the corner was muted and was showing some news segment about the first school that was supposed to be opening within the month. Mikey had a fleeting memory of Revolver reading old books with him and sounding out the words, which he pushed away with a few swallows of beer. 

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Billie said casually, returning to his wipe down of the counter. “What’ve you been up to?” 

“I’ve just been around,” Mikey shrugged, wrapping his fingers around the cool glass of the bottle. It was slick with condensation and felt good against the layers of callouses that had grown on Mikey’s hands throughout the years. “Helping with some of the rebuilding projects.”

“Yeah, Gabe told me you helped him build a garden. He brought me a tomato. Almost cried when I cut into it,” He returned a few glasses to their proper place and turned to Mikey, leaning against the adjacent counter. “Frank came looking for you.”

“Did he now?” Mikey mumbled around the mouth of the bottle, tipping it into his mouth. 

Billie nodded. “A few times actually. On the anniversary of the fall and the anniversary of--”

“Her death,” Mikey interrupted coolly. “I figured.” Billie crossed his arms and regarded Mikey with an odd expression. “What?” Mikey scowled, annoyed. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“You’re angry,” Billie said simply. “I can almost smell it on you.” 

“I’m handling it,” Mikey’s voice was rough and he took another swallow from the bottle to clear it. “It’s fine. Just because I don’t do things like everyone else doesn’t mean I need a babysitter.”

“You lost the closest thing you had to a sister,” Billie returned to wiping down the other counter after fishing a second bottle out of the fridge for Mikey. “No one has any place to judge how you mourn, man.”

“Then everyone needs to leave me the fuck alone,” Mikey responded, finishing the first bottle and opening the second. “And let her be dead.”

“She might be dead, Mikey, but your friends aren’t.” Mikey looked up to find Billie looking at him. “The rest of the world kept going.” 

“They didn’t have to do it,” Mikey said, voice cracking slightly. “They didn’t have to watch her die.” His eyes burned suddenly, and he pressed the heels of his palms over his eyelids and heaved a sigh. 

“They didn’t,” Billie agreed, folding his arms. “And if you hold that against them for the rest of your life, that will be the thing that kills you.” 

The television before them flashed suddenly, providing a welcome distraction for the pair. Billie grabbed a remote and turned the sound back on; the telecaster, a petite blonde woman, came to life mid-sentence. 

“--of Better Living Industries? Security footage of the outskirts of what was once Battery City might just answer that question.”

“I hate these damn conspiracy theorist shows. They just stir up trouble,” Billie scowled at the television. 

“Sources at the New World police department say that this image was captured early Thursday morning, on the one year anniversary of the fall of BL/i--” An image flashed on the screen; two figures could be made out amongst the rubble. Both were dressed in white, although only one was hooded. “--of these two figures clothed in what appear to be Better Living uniforms. Upon closer examination, our experts here at the station believe they may have identified the unhooded figure.” 

The image was blown up to feature the unhooded figure’s face. Mikey was nursing his beer, staring at the bottles behind the counter when Billie’s voice caused him to look up.  
“Mikey,” Billie was staring at the television, horror evident on his face. 

Mikey’s eyes shoot to the screen. The person looked to be wearily staring to the left of the camera; it was a girl with a shaved head and dark eyes. Her features were blurred slightly due to the camera’s lack of quality, but the image flashed to pan another frame; this time, she was looking straight at the camera. Mikey could make out a scar on her lower lip in the shape of a crescent, and his stomach dropped. Revolver had an identical scar, the result of a firefight with some dracs on Christmas Day when she was fifteen years old. A drac had pulled a knife on her and split her lip open. It was the first one she ever killed. 

“Sources tell us that this figure may be the late Contemplation Revolver,” An older image of Revolver when she was sixteen flashed beside the security film. “Notorious partner to the Fabulous Four Killjoys that was held in Better Living for two years and was killed shortly after her release. Questions still remain--how is she alive? Why is she exposed? And finally, what does this mean for the world we have created?”

“That’s,” Mikey swallowed roughly. “That’s impossible. We burned her. That’s--” His chest seized and he leaped to his feet, grabbing his jacket and throwing a few carbons on the counter before sprinting out the door. 

\--

“Get up. We need to transfer you,” The security guard at her door shook a pair of shackles. “Let’s go.” 

Charlie rose to her feet, adjusting the collar of the pressed white shirt they had given her moments before. She held out her arms and felt the cool familiarly of cuffs and chains enclosing over her wrists. 

“The sunlight might burn a bit,” The guard said gruffly, pushing her out the door and around a corner. “Keep your head down, and if you try to run, I will kill you before you get ten feet away.”

“Why would I run?” Charlie said blankly, stepping outside before the guard. The light was bright, almost painful, but the warmth of the sun felt amazing on her skin. She inhaled deeply, looking around. They were surrounded by ruined buildings and pieces of concrete. She had to watch where she stepped; glass and metal debris littered the ground at her feet. The guard kept swiveling his head. It was obvious he was waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. They made their way to one of the last buildings still intact, and Charlie was pushed through the door. She was taken to a room, not unlike the testing facility she had been in before. It was clean and empty of many things except an operating table, where she was instructed to sit. 

“You are about to meet a very important man,” The guard said, unshackling Charlie and letting the chains drop. “His name is Julien, but you will refer to him as either “sir” or nothing at all. Got it?” Charlie nodded and the guard crossed the room and opened a door. 

“Hello, Charlie,” A clean-cut man entered the room. His salt-and-peppered hair glimmered under the lights, and his suit appeared to be freshly dry-cleaned. “My name is Julien. It is very nice to meet you after all of these weeks.” He shook her hand and took a seat on the chair provided for him. He crossed his legs and placed his hands on his knee, looking at her coolly. 

Charlie shifted slightly under his gaze. “It’s, um, nice to meet you too, sir.” 

“You are almost finished with the rehabilitation process, my dear,” Julien smiled, although it did not appear to reach his eyes. “And you are truly a success. The effort took to obtain you was well worth the result.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“There is only one final step,” Julien withdrew a slim metal device from his coat pocket. “This is the last bit of, should I say--” He paused, and smiled again. “Programming to install.” Charlie had to keep herself from frowning; the medicine had provided a cloud in her brain that insisted she accept all that was being said, but something was nagging at her. She wasn’t sure she liked what she was hearing. “I am going to ensure that your brain and body is ready, and we shall begin.” 

He stood suddenly and threw an object at her; a knife aimed straight for the space between her eyes. Without thinking, Charlie caught it by the hilt, inches from her face. She let it drop to the floor with a clatter, blinking at him. He gestured for her to stand, and as she did, he withdrew a gun and fired. She jerked herself backward, bending out of the way of the laser. He fired at her head; she dodged it by inches. When he shot at her feet, she seemed to anticipate it and landed a kick square to his firing hand. The gun dropped to the floor, broken at the barrel. 

“Good,” He murmured, eyeing her like a prize pupil. “Very good. If you had been this compliant when you were sixteen, we wouldn’t have had to kill you.” Charlie readjusted herself and stood with her arms pressed to her side, looking straight ahead. “I think you’re ready. You might feel a slight bit of pain, but it will fade in seconds.” He withdrew the device again and keyed in a code; Charlie’s face flashed with worry for a split second before he pressed the button at the bottom of the device. 

She cried out in pain, clutching her head. She was being stabbed all over, and right when she thought she was going to die, it vanished. She drew back up to standing, and looked again at Julien; this time, her unmistakable brown eyes were darker, almost black in pigment, and any light that had resided in them were gone. 

“Who is this?” Julien held up a photo of a red-haired Killjoy. Charlie examined it for a moment before responding in a dull tone. 

“Party Poison.”

“And this?” He held up the second photo of two men by a car. 

“Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul.” 

“Who are they?”

“The Fabulous Killjoys,” Charlie said, voice void of emotion. “Terrorist cell bent on destroying Better Living Industries.”

“And what are you here to do, Charlie?” 

Charlie’s mouth split into a grin; a trickle of blood dripped down her chin. “Kill them.”


	6. Ordinary World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so sorry this is so late--but it's a long one. xoxo charlie 
> 
> chapter title by Green Day.

**Seven years earlier**.

It was a hot day and Contemplation Revolver was freshly thirteen; there was not a lot to be said about what a thirteen year old could achieve on a hot day, especially when said thirteen year old was explicitly told the knife drawer was off limits because no one ever let her have any fun. She had already reorganized her small stack of books by title, then by author, then by title again, and she only had fourteen books. Doctor D wasn’t broadcasting at the moment, and while he was dozing in his chair by his equipment noisily, Revolver had cleaned her cleaned her new blaster with a decaying toothbrush and some spit.

It had been a birthday present, the weapon, handed to her in a shoebox held closed by a piece of string. Freshly painted and cool to the touch, she had been given a warning as she held it in her hands:

“This can kill people, Revolver,” Poison stated plainly, his eyes boring into hers. “Don’t forget.”

Ghoul had given her a holster to hold it. It was made of old leather from a stripped car, he said, proudly showing her where her Killjoy symbol had been embroidered. He had shown her how to sling it on her belt like they did, and how to walk so it didn’t hit her leg too hard and make her limp funny. A hint of pride could be detected in his grin as she strutted around the main room of the Diner with the blaster strapped to her hip.

The blaster now rested on the overturned crate next to her cot, beside her journal and a decaying wax candle. Revolver wracked her brain for more things to do; she could see if Atomic was around and wanted to go paint some buildings, but the Four were out on a distress call and probably wouldn’t want her leaving the Diner. Actually, they had specifically instructed her not to leave over the clamor of cartridges being loaded into blasters and uniforms being pulled over sweaty skin.

“If you leave,” Poison instructed, tugging his boots over his feet. “I’ll kick your ass, and kick the ass of whoever you decide to hang out with. But most of the ass kicking will land on you, kid.”

“He means that,” Kobra nodded as he shucked his jacket over his shoulders.

Revolver had watched them go as she always did: from the front window of the Diner with her hand pressed to the dusty glass, wishing she could go too. She always felt the same pang of longing when they left, although she knew that firefights weren’t as glorious as they sounded over the airwaves or in Ghoul’s outrageous stories. People died, and people got hurt. She had seen her fair share of bloody appendages and broken bones. She wanted to be there anyway.

Revolver decided to wander from her room and see if the Doctor was awake; much to her disappointment, he wasn’t, so she heaved a sigh and pushed her hair from her face with one hand as she surveyed the empty house. Poison had just cut it, using his knife and promising to scalp her if she wriggled too much; it fell just below her ears and around her eyes. She usually kept it tied back in a bandana that Kobra had stolen when Rev showed up on their doorstep with his hand half blown to shit. He claimed he didn’t need it anymore, considering that it came from the wrist that was attached to the decrepit hand.

She walked down the hallway and entered the kitchen, deciding to watch the dust float in the sunshine. She liked to pretend they were fairies, on their way to rescue her and take her to Neverland, like in Peter Pan. She would never tell anyone this, because she felt she was way too old to play pretend in her mind, and besides, Disney stories always made Jet weepy.

She had counted fifteen flecks of dust in the air when a radio startled to life on the counter. It was a transmitter, and she realized that it had been left behind by the Four. It was crackling and sputtering noise, a clear sign someone was trying to get in contact. Revolver rose from the table and took the radio between her hands, adjusting the dials to get a clearer signal.

“--ello? Hello? Is anyone there?”

“Hello?” Revolver replied uneasily, her eyebrows furrowing

“Revolver!” The voice flooded with relief. “Thank God you picked up. Listen, it’s Rev. Patrick, remember?”

“You’re not supposed to say your name over the transmitter,” Revolver said quickly, clutching the radio tighter. Something must be wrong.

“You’re right, you’re totally right, it’s--fuck!” An explosion rocked in the background of the transmission.

“Is everything okay?” Revolver felt her stomach run cold.

“It’s fine, it’s--” She heard the sound of a blaster discharging and lasers zapping. “It’s so fine. Hey, I just need you to get Doctor D for me and tell him that we need--” He cut off again and Revolver heard the distant sound of yelling. “--a little help in the badlands of Zone Five. Can you do that?”

“Y-Yes,” She stammered, heart pounding. “Rev, are people dead?”

Rev laughed nervously. “Like they could kill any of us. Just go get D, kid, and everything will be fine.You stay put, and everything will--” The radio emitted a burst of static and went dead.

Revolver stared at the silent device in her hands. Thoughts raced through her mind; she could wake up Doctor Death, but how would he get to them? He couldn’t even walk, and most of the big gangs were probably already at the fight. Revolver had never heard noises like that from a fight before. They needed help.

Revolver had to help.

She dropped the transmitter onto the table with a clatter and raced down the hallway. She shucked her t-shirt and shorts into the corner and opened up the crate beneath her bed. Inside was her Killjoy uniform, barely worn and hardly touched. She paused for a moment, eyes trained on the vest inside, before she threw herself into the pants and shirt. Tugging her vest over her shoulders, she tied a bandana around her neck and shoved her blaster into her holster before sprinting out the door, her boots thudding on the floor. She heard Doctor D snort awake as she flew passed his door. It was roughly a half-mile to badlands. Revolver hit the dirt running and didn’t stop when she heard Death yell her name as the door slammed behind her; her focus held only the ground beneath her feet and the badlands on the horizon.

\--

Revolver didn’t know how she got there so fast. It wasn’t long until, chest heaving, she came upon the spot she was trying to get to; a point of sight, above the valley of the badlands, where she could make out the location of the fight. She found it quickly and slid down the dirt and rocks, stumbling slightly when she hit the bottom. She sprinted towards the cloud of dust and lasers, pulling her bandana to cover her nose and mouth.

As she ran, she heard startled cries of, “Revolver?” and “It’s the girl!”. Everyone seemed to be shouting. A laser flew passed her ear, singeing the tucked ends of her hair. Another flew passed her face, cutting open her left cheek and leaving the skin smoldering and raw. She felt the wound in disbelief, blood staining her fingers, and reality came crashing down around her; she had run, headfirst, into a firefight that was fraught with dracs with nothing but her blaster. They surrounded her, their horrific masked faces grotesque. She didn’t even know where the Four were, she realized, as panic tightened in her chest and made it hard to breathe.

Suddenly, an arm was thrown around her middle and somebody lifted her into the air; she screamed until she realized it was Jet, his face set in determination as he pulled her out of the firefight and into the clearer air some yards away.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded, pulling the bandana away from his nose and mouth and doing the same with hers. “What, in all living hell, are you doing here?”

“I h-heard, Patrick called and s-said,” She stammered, eyes welling up with hot tears. “It sounded bad, I-I had to come, I had to--”

“Stay here,” He said roughly, righting his own bandana and withdrawing his blaster. “Do not move.” He turned on his heel and ran back into the fray, firing deftly at the line of draculoids before them. Bodies were dropping; Revolver could hear each thud as the dead hit the dirt, expired. She sat for what felt like minutes and hours and days, blood trickling down her cheek and dripping off of her chin onto her vest; the patch that held her Killjoy symbol was being covered in blood. Thirteen-year-old Revolver felt very small at that moment, out of harm's way but still in imminent danger simply for being alive.

“We need to go!” Poison shouted over the clash and Revolver scrambled to her feet as Killjoys began to disperse from the fight, many of which were chased by draculoids and laserbeams. Kobra was the first one she saw, his face gleaming with sweat and grime and the unmistakable tinge of wiped blood. He ran towards her with a bewildered look on his face and held his hand out; she took it and allowed herself to be pulled away from the blasters firing behind them.

“How the hell did you get here?” He yelled to her over the chorus of shouts and guns. He looked over his shoulder, and stopped short for a brief second to pull Revolver onto his back. He kept running, firing blindly over his shoulder. She held on tightly, eyes trained on the Trans Am ahead of them. Poison was already in the driver’s seat by miraculous luck, and Revolver saw Jet and Ghoul close behind.

“Let’s go!” Poison yelled as Kobra unceremoniously dumped Revolver through the window and dove in after her; Ghoul followed shortly after and Jet was barely in the car when Poison took off.

“The others,” Ghoul panted. “What about the others?”

“We couldn’t wait,” Poison said tightly, eyes trained on the road. He appeared unscatched, although noticable angry; Revolver couldn’t help but think he was angry at her.

Kobra helped her right herself between himself and Ghoul. Ghoul immediately undid his bandana and pressed it to Revolver’s bloody cheek, smiling slightly.

“Had to get in on the fun, didja?”

“Ghoul,” Poison warned from the driver’s seat, and Ghoul’s smile dropped. He got to work cleaning Revolver’s face and neck, most of which was sticky with blood. She sat quietly, shame and fear eating away at her stomach. She couldn’t believe that she had thought she could fight; she had only been thirteen for two days and hadn’t even hit her growth spurt yet. One second in, and she froze.

“This is going to need stitches,” He said, eyeing it closely. “They got you pretty bad.” At that moment, the Trans Am rolled up to the Diner and the Killjoys rushed inside, wary of any BL/i vehicle following them. Revolver was lead to the kitchen, where Ghoul set to work. He received a bottle filled with dark liquid from under the sink. He poured the whiskey over a rag and instructed Revolver to take a deep breath before pressing it to the burn.

Revolver yelped in pain, gripping Kobra’s hand tightly. Poison stood stone-faced in the corner, apathetic, while Jet stalked away to talk to Doctor Death.

“‘Volver, you know we don’t have anything to numb you,” Ghoul said, rummaging in the decrepit aid kit they kept in the cabinet. “So believe me when I tell you this is going to hurt like a motherfucker.”

“Glad you didn’t pursue a career in pediatrics, asshole,” Kobra muttered, cringing when Ghoul began to stitch Revolver up. Her teeth were cutting into her lower lip to keep from screaming, and when Ghoul finished, she began to cry in earnest, her shoulders shaking. She felt stupid and small and terrified; Ghoul kept murmuring that she was okay while he covered the stitches in a thin layer of gauze and taped it down, and that made her feel worse. She was thirteen, for Christ’s sake, not seven, and she hated feeling like a baby.

“We’re done,” Ghoul said finally, stepping back and wiping his hands on his jeans. “Hopefully the whiskey took away most of any possible infection, but fuck, we live in a dirt-filled shithole. If you wake up tomorrow looking like Harvey Two-Face from the Batman series, we’ll know it failed.” Kobra chuckled, then fell silent under the glare of Poison, who was looking murderous.

“Revolver,” Poison said slowly, arms folded across his chest. “Does your brain work?”

Revolver blinked at him. “Um...yes?”

“Really? Because, somehow, I remember explicitly telling you to stay put, and instead you decided to act like a hero and run into a fucking firefight.”

Revolver swallowed thickly and began to explain the call and what she thought was going on. She was wringing her hands nervously, eyes darting between Poison and the floor. “--and then I ran,” She finished. “Until I found you.”

“You should have stayed put,” Poison said angrily, eyebrows stringing together into a scowl.

“I know, I--”

“You know?” Poison interrupted, sarcasm weighing heavily on his voice. “You know, do you? Did you know that you coulda died, coulda had your brains splattered all over the dirt?” Revolver’s mouth opened then closed, eyes trained on his face in fear. “We coulda been dragging’ you through the desert and burning you right now if Jet hadn’t stepped in and saved your sorry ass?”

“I thought--”

“No, Revolver,” Poison yelled, slamming his hand on the table in front of her. “You didn’t think jack shit and that’s the fucking problem!”

“Poison,” Kobra said warningly, eyeing his brother warily.

“I thought you were going to die,” Revolver stated shakily, her shoulders trembling. “I thought you were going to die. If you were going to die, I, I wanted to die, too.” Ghoul and Kobra looked at her then looked away.

Poison’s glare didn’t waver. “We ain’t worth dying for, sweetheart.”

Revolver felt crushed. “Poison, I--”

“I don't want to hear whatever bullshit you have to say, Charlie.” Her name sounded like venom on his tongue, and Revolver’s stomach ran cold. She looked at him brokenly, her lower lip trembling.

“That’s enough,” Ghoul stood and leveled a scowl at Poison. “Get out of here and go cool off.”

“Shut up, Ghoul--” Poison began nastily before Ghoul stepped forward and folded his arms.

“Get out.”

Poison looked pissed, but threw his blaster on the counter and stalked out the door, Kobra following closely behind. The clatter of the gun on the tile make Revolver startle from her reprieve; she stared at the space where Poison had been moments before with a blank expression.

“Come on, baby,” Ghoul said softly, kneeling in front of her and running his thumb over her injured cheek. “You need some rest after all the excitement today. Actually,” He glanced at the closed front door of the Diner. “We all do.” She followed him down the hall and into the bedroom they shared, barely stepping into the room before shedding her Killjoy vest and tossing it to the floor. She wrestled her holster off of her belt and threw it down; the thought of holding onto it any longer seemed to hurt her. Revolver climbed onto her cot after wrapping herself in her blanket and turning away from Ghoul.

Ghoul paused in his own undressing, jacket halfway down his shoulders. He shrugged it back on and began collecting her things from the floor. He folded her vest, Killjoy symbol up, and removed her blaster from its holster; all of these things he arranged into a neat pile and placed them in the case under her bed, latching it closed.

“You may never want to wear those things again, ‘Volver,” He said casually, replacing the case in its original place. “But the day is going to come when it doesn’t feel so heavy. I promise.”

There was a muffled sniff before Revolver responded in a thick voice. “You can’t promise me anything.”

“I used to make you all sorts of promises when you were smaller,” Ghoul replied, sitting on the edge of her cot. “And you believed most of them.”

“I’m not a baby anymore,” She said firmly, looking up with watery eyes. “You have to stop lying.”

“What am I lying about, kid?” Ghoul set to work untying the laces of her left boot, tugging the worn leather off of her foot and setting it on the ground.

“That I’m going to like being a Killjoy. You don’t know that.”

Ghoul undid the other boot and set it beside its pair. “Why wouldn’t you like being a Killjoy?”

“It’s dirty and lonely and people die,” Revolver responded, training her eyes on the wall. “You’re going to die, all of you, and leave me behind. I know it.”

“You don’t know that.”

Revolver turned with such a ferocity that Ghoul almost lost his balance on the edge of her cot. “Yes I do! I do, I--” Her voice cracked and she turned away to press her face into her pillow.

Ghoul sighed. “Kid, you’re going to mess up your stitches.”

“I don’t care,” came the muffled reply, frustration and sadness evident in every muscle of the girl’s body.

“Sure you don’t,” Ghoul mumbled, situating himself with his back against the wall, still seated on her cot. He placed a hand on her back and stoked her with his thumb.

“I think I’m starting to forget them,” Revolver said suddenly, rolling over to look at him.

“Who, baby?”

Her voice barely rose above a whisper as she responded. “My parents.” Ghoul felt speechless; he had no idea how to respond. “Sometimes,” She continued quietly. “I pretend that you guys are my parents and that my real ones didn’t exist and didn’t die, and I can pretend things are normal until I remember that they aren’t. Because they’re never normal. You’re not my parents because my parents are dead.”

“Oh, ‘Volver,” seemed to be all Ghoul could manage against his constricted throat and burning eyes. He motioned for Revolver to sit up, and enveloped her in a hug. He rested his chin upon her head and let silence envelop them.

“We can be whatever you want us to be,” He said after a moment. “And that can change anytime you want. That hole in your heart where you parents are won’t ever be filled,” Ghoul swallowed and continued. “But sometimes family is more than blood.”

Revolver didn’t respond for a few beats. She released Ghoul and sat up, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I want to be alone right now.”

“Okay, kid,” Ghoul stood up and looked at her small frame curling up on her cot. “We’ll be outside like always.” He exited her room, closing the door behind him with a click.

\--

 **Present day**.

Frank was sitting in the same spot he had sat seven years before, staring at the wall across from him. His elbows dug into his knees as he took steady breaths, his stomach churning. Mikey had just rushed into the his living room an hour before, chest heaving, to tell them he saw Revolver on the television, that she was alive, and that they had to do something.

Frank had socked him in the jaw and stalked out.

He didn’t know where to go, so he just started walking. It wasn’t long until he stood in the familiar shadow of the place he had lived for ten years, the Diner, dusty and worn-out but still standing. He had pushed the door open without a second thought, making his way across the thin layer of sand on the floor, and went straight into the room he and Revolver had shared.

Frank felt heavy, like his chest was covered with a layer of cement. He couldn’t do this again, believe she was alive only to have her ripped from him barely after he had gotten her back. His mind drifted to the conversation he had with her those seven years before, a conversation that never left the walls of the room. Revolver never mentioned it again, bucked up and grew up and started killing like the rest of them. Frank wished now that he would’ve stayed and talked to her more; if he had only known he had a limited amount of time left.

Frank swore he could feel it when she died, even before he knew she was dead. He had looked out the window at the setting sun and known she was gone. That didn’t change the fact that when he saw her, bloody and broken on the desert floor, he wished it was him in the dirt, not her. She was supposed to bury them; hell, she had already outlived one. He told himself over and over that it was okay, she probably didn’t feel any pain, and that she was with Jet. Ray would take care of her like he had taken care of all of them. He never said much, but he loved her like they all did.

Frank laid back on the cot and stared at the ceiling, remember the countless nights he lay awake, unable to sleep, and listened to her breathe. It wasn’t until she was gone that he realized it had been years since he had slept alone.

“Frank?” A voice startled Frank from his reprieve and he shot up from the cot, hand flying to his belt instinctively until he remembered he didn’t carry a gun anymore. “I can see your footprints.” It was Gerard, and he wasn’t alone. Mikey’s voice followed.

“We better hope it’s his footprints, or else we’re in deep shit.”

“No one comes here anymore, Mikey,” Gerard sounded tired. “People think it’s haunted or some shit.”

“Probably is,” Frank said, stepping out of Revolver’s room and into the hallway. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Gerard and Mikey said together. Frank met Mikey’s eyes, who quickly looked away and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. Frank walked out to the living room and stood in front of the two brothers, eyes on the floor.

“Sorry for ditching,” He said after a moment, gaze flickering to Mikey’s swollen jaw. “And for punching you.”

“You still pack a mean right hook,” Mikey shrugged. “It’s cool. I would’ve, um, I would’ve punched me too.”

It was odd enough to stand in the front room of the Diner with Gerard and Mikey, let alone the fact that they all looked out of place. Hell, Frank was wearing a beanie. Mikey was in a plaid shirt, and Gerard was in some sort of cardigan thing that would’ve lost him all credibility in the Zones; they looked like normal people instead of people who used to kill for survival.

“So, is it--” Frank cleared his throat. “Is it true?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“I swear, it was her,” Mikey said, his tone uneven. “I know it was her.”

“I saw the tape, Frankie,” Gerard said quietly, shoving one hand through his unkempt hair. “I think he’s right.”

“How do you know?” Frank said, his voice harsh. “It could be anyone.”

Mikey tapped his lip. “The scar.”

Frank remembered it. She had burst into the Diner clutching her mouth, blood splattered all over her clothes. Flecks of blood dotted her face like freckles. A drac had managed to rip her lip open with a knife--the cheating bastards, Frank thought bitterly--and Doctor Death was halfway through piecing it back together when Revolver slurred that she had killed it, blown its brains out into the dirt, after it cut her. She hadn’t said it with much feeling. She was only fifteen when it happened, and her eyes never quite lost the look they had that night.

“Fuck,” Frank said, exhaling slowly. “Holy fucking Christ.”

“Couldn’t of said it better myself,” Mikey mumbled, looking around the room uneasily. He looked unnerved.

“Who else knows?” Frank whispered, unable to look at either of them. His heart felt like it was pounding in his throat.

“I was with Billie when I saw the footage,” Mikey responded. “But other than that, no one knows.”

Gerard released his hair and ran both hands down his face. “We burned her. This is impossible. People don’t just,” He inhaled shakily. “They don’t just come back from that.”

“And BL/i fell,” Frank continued. “We made sure of it.”

“There’s always survivors,” Mikey said darkly, gesturing around the room. “I mean, look at us.”

“You can’t possibly think--” The room began to swim before Frank’s eyes. “They can’t--”

“Be back?” Gerard looked forlorn. “I guess we have to find out.”

“Oh God, I’m going to pass out,” Frank gasped, stumbling forward.

“Shit, dude!” Mikey caught him, and with Gerard’s help, lowered Frank to the ground. “Don’t pass out, because if you puke, I’m so out of here.” Frank rested his head between his knees and took steady breaths.

“The footage is probably going to go public pretty soon,” Gerard said, resting his hand on Frank’s back. “Larger media outlets are going to pick it up, and then it’s going to be everywhere.”

“What are we going to do?” Mikey asked, sitting beside Frank and rubbing the back of his neck with a grimace. “We’re not Killjoys anymore. That’s over.”

Gerard said nothing as he stood and dusted off his pants, looking around the Diner with a grim expression. A sinking feeling plagued Frank’s stomach as he realized what Gerard was thinking.

When Gerard finally spoke, his voice was ladened with steel. “I think we’re going to need to pay a visit to the Doctor.”

\--

“I am way too old for this shit,” The radio host said. “Don’t you boys know how to do anything else except get into trouble?”

“Apparently not,” Frank replied, gazing around Doctor Death’s studio. “You sure do have a lot of shit in here.”

“Still broadcastin’, just for different reasons nowadays,” The old man replied, folding his arms and glaring at the three men from his wheelchair. “Don’t touch anything.”

“D, I really think she might be back. And if she’s back--” Gerard trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“The whole damn show is back, too,” Death sighed and wheeled to his desk. “Just as things got settled. Anyone else know about this?”

“Just Billie,” Mikey said from his seat on the couch where he was flipping through some old comics to busy his hands. He looked visibly nervous and agitated, and slightly bewildered; Frank wondered when the last time he had slept was.

“He’ll keep it quiet,” D said, clicking and typing at his computer. “Damn it, I never know how to use this fuckin’ thing.”

A voice sounded from behind Frank, making him jump. “That’s what I’m for, D. Move over.” A young man with blonde hair sidestepped Frank from his place in the doorway, waving to the three ex-Killjoys. “Hey, guys.”

“Hey, Bug. Er, I mean--” Frank wracked his brain for the techie Killjoy’s name, and came up empty; he had never known it.

“Dylan,” Dylan smiled. “It’s cool. I forget sometimes, too. What are you guys looking for?”

The three exchanged looks. “Uh, archived footage,” Gerard said. “Aired about three or four hours ago.”

“That’s hardly archived,” Dylan chuckled, pale blue eyes trained onto the screen. “But I can find it. From what channel?”

“The one with the blonde lady,” Mikey piped up from the corner. “New World media or something.”

Dylan hummed, scrolling down a list on the screen. “All aired news is public, part of the new Information Agreement, so it shouldn’t be hard to find, especially since it’s so recent--” He clicked on a link and the transmission uploaded. “Is this it?”

Mikey made his way over to the desk, peered at the screen, and nodded. “That’s it.”

They crowded around the screen and watched as Mikey dragged the cursor through the video to find what he was looking for. He paused it on the screencap of the girl looking into the camera, and Frank’s stomach dropped.

Doctor Death’s low whistle penetrated the stunned silence. “She’s alive. I swear, that girl can do anything.”

“Is that...Revolver?” Dylan said, his voice strained with emotion.

“We think so,” Gerard responded, pulling his eyes away from the screen with visible difficulty.

Frank covered his mouth with a shaking hand. “Oh, my God.”

“What do we do, D?” Mikey returned to the couch and sat down heavily. “What does this all mean?”

Doctor Death rolled away from the desk and turned to face the window. “We do what Revolver would do for any of us.”

“Which would include numerous obscenities and a frying pan,” Gerard pushed his hand through his hair again, gazing at Frank.

“That only happened once, and in her defense, we totally could’ve been robbing the Diner,” Mikey said, his hands pressed over his eyes in visual exhaustion.

“We should sleep on it,” Frank said finally, his voice weary and sad. “Not make any decisions right now. I need to,” He cleared his throat. “I need to process.”

“Yeah,” Gerard said quickly, his gaze sympathetic. “We all do.”

They agreed to return to Doctor Death’s in the morning, and after making Dylan swear he wouldn’t tell anybody what he saw, the three ex-Killjoys started the trek to the car, which was still at the Diner. It wasn’t until they arrived and Gerard had his hand on the handle to open the door when somebody spoke.

“Fuck,” Mikey said irritatedly. “We can’t go back to that house. We need to stay here. That place was bullshit anyways,” He looked around fiercely, as if he was daring Frank or Gerard to challenge him. “This is our home. This was her home.”

Frank and Gerard stood stunned; that had been the most Mikey had spoken to either of them in months.

“Yeah,” Gerard replied, smiling slightly. “Old habits die hard, brother.” He took Frank’s hand and led him inside, Mikey following closely behind. He started to pull him into Gerard’s old room when Frank hesitated.

“I, um,” Frank dropped his hand and blinked rapidly at the floor. “I’m going to sleep in her room, if that’s alright. Our room. That one,” He pointed over his shoulder at the door across the hall.

Gerard’s gaze softened and he nodded. “Do what you need.” Frank pressed a quick kiss to Gerard’s cheek and hurried into the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He dropped onto her cot and pulled the blankets to his chin; if he really focused, he swore he could smell her. He thought of all of the nights he spent across the room, and all the nights he spent in this very cot, holding Revolver to his chest and insisting everything was okay when he knew that it wasn’t. On cold nights, they did it for necessity, her warmth matching his under decrepit blankets; on other nights, they did it for each other.

He lay awake for hours, imagining he could hear her breathing.


End file.
